Atlas
by Nightingales Fall
Summary: The weight of the future pressed down on her, heavy, like the weight of the sky pressed against Atlas' shoulders. Semi SI-OC as Fem!Sam
1. Chapter 1

You know what my biggest regret is?

Not watching more than a handful of Supernatural episodes.

If I had known what would happen after I died, if I'd had any inkling of the crap headed my way, I would've watched it. I would've watched it until I could quote each episode from memory and new every tip and trick necessary to survive.

But I didn't know. So I watched a few episodes on TNT and read a lot of useless fanfiction. I learned a basic outline of the show and a few useful facts, but for the most part I was blind.

Ignorant and blind, which is no way to be.

My name is Samantha Winchester.

I was born on May 2, 1983.

And I am so, so screwed.


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter has been revised and a prologue was added.**

* * *

 _BANG!_

Shotgun shot to the head, dead ghoul.

 _BANG!_

Shotgun shot to the head, dead ghoul number two.

 _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Three, four, and five down for the count. I wiped ghoul bits from my face and spat blood into the grass. They'd gotten in a few good hits.

"Rest in Purgatory, fuckers," I said.

I went to get a shovel from my truck. Winchesters didn't leave bodies behind unless they had no other choice.

The cemetery was out in the country, more than a mile from the nearest house, so I figured it was safe enough to dig a grave and burn the bodies. Maybe I'd even stick around to fill the hole in.

I didn't dig a deep grave. I was exhausted and they were ghouls who'd just spent an hour making my life difficult by trying to make me dinner. They could deal with a shallow grave. It wasn't like they'd ever know.

What I really wanted was to leave them there to rot. Let the local authorities scratch their heads over the mystery; I'd lost my last fuck to give when one of the bastards tried to knock my teeth out.

I dragged the bodies to the grave one by one and threw them in. Add some salt, strike a match, and up in flames they went. I took a few steps back and dropped on my ass in the grass, watching the flames spark and flicker.

There was still blood in the grass. Great big streaks of it.

 _That_ wasn't suspicious at all.

I went back to my truck and grabbed a case of unopened water bottles. I opened them one by one and dumped them over the blood streaks until most of it was soaked into the ground and the grass looked green again.

When the bodies were nothing but faint embers I refilled the grave and left.

I drove three towns over before I pulled into a motel and booked a room. No one batted an eye at my battered appearance. It was a large town and the motel was the cheap, seedy kind. I bet they saw all kinds of shady shit on daily basis.

The room smelled like lemon cleaner and cigarettes. The walls were yellowed from smoke. All of the furniture had a dated, almost antique look. I didn't see any cockroaches or mouse droppings and the water pressure was even decent, which was never a guarantee in motels like this.

Money well spent as far as I was concerned.

When I got out of the shower, I bundled up my dirty, bloodstained clothes and stuffed them in an empty Wal-Mart bag. I'd burn them the next time I was at Bobby's or the Roadhouse. Bloodstains were a bitch to get out and I couldn't be bothered. They were no great loss when I could afford to replace them.

I towel dried my hair and dug through my toiletries for my brush. It was purple, sparkly, and the number of times I'd almost died just to keep it were ridiculous. Dean gave it to me years ago when I'd grown my hair out in a stubborn effort to retain some femininity under Dad's influence.

These days I kept it around chin length. Sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, but never much. Dad would be proud.

I snorted. What a funny thought. Dad, proud.

You didn't kick a kid out if you were proud.

My phone rang before I could fall into morose thoughts. I answered it without looking at the caller I.D.

"You've got Sam; what's your name, problem, and how can I help?"

" _Sammy_?"

The last person I expected to hear was Dean. Since the big blow out (not to be confused with the Big Fight) we'd barely exchanged a handful of words outside of obligatory Christmas and Birthday wishes. I hated it.

"Dean?" My voice cracked on his name. I cleared my throat, embarrassed, and tried to play it off. "What's up? How've you uh, been?"

" _I've been good_ ," he said. " _Real good. You?_ "

"Good, great, awesome," I said, while my stomach dropped at real good. "Saved a few people, hunted a few things, you know how it is."

He was silent a moment. My dumb brain filled the silence with a thousand horrible thoughts about what he might be thinking. I tapped my fingers against the table. My leg started bouncing. There was a black hole in my chest threatening to expand and swallow me whole.

" _…yeah_ ," he said finally. " _Yeah, I do. That's why I called. I need your help Sammy._ "

My stomach dropped. The black hole sucked the breath from my lungs and replaced it with intense dread. I gripped the phone tighter and squeezed my eyes shut.

" _Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days._ "

The words sent a shiver of dread down my spine. Goose bumps spread over my arms. I broke out in a cold sweat.

Here we go.

* * *

I was packed up and on the road within an hour.

* * *

California was a sauna compared to the bitter chill of northern Oregon. I rolled the windows down and turned the radio up. Miles of road passed under my tires as I headed towards Jericho and the beginning of the end. Of multiple ends, if I remembered right.

I dug my cell phone out and texted Brady.

 _Back in Cali; want to meet?_

It took him a minute to text back.

 _When & where?_

 _Got a job first, but after. I'll txt and bring drinks, you bring the people. Meet at your place?_

 _Sounds good. C u then._

It would be nice to catch up. Awkward, because Dean might be there, but nice. I could see how Brady was in person and check the area for demon omens to make sure my nightmares were just nightmares.

I'd also get to see Jess again, but I tried not to focus on that. Some things were better left alone and the weird unspoken thing between us was one of them.

(I refused to be the cause of her death.)

I texted Dean when I hit the county line.

 _Half an hour out. Where are you?_

He called. I turned the radio down and answered.

" _You know it's easier to just call me, right?_ "

"I was enjoying my music," I said. "Where're you at?"

" _A bridge just outside the town. The cops are all over an abandoned car. Might have to do with whatever Dad was hunting so I'm gonna go check it out._ "

"What're you going to do, play cop?"

He was silent. I groaned. "Dean!"

" _What? I've got the I.D's for a Federal Marshall. It'll be fine._ "

I pressed my foot down on the gas. "No, it won't be fine, you're going to get yourself arrested. You're too young to be a Federal Marshall. Just head into town and I'll swing buy and question them."

" _And what're you gonna do that I can't?_ "

"Be way less suspicious, for one thing, Mr. Twenty-six year old Federal Marshall. Also, I have three different credible I.D.'s with respectable, airtight backgrounds."

" _What d'you need three credible backgrounds for?_ "

"In our line of work? A lot. You and Dad have three each, too. They cost a pretty penny so be grateful."

" _What're we gonna do with credible I.D.'s?"_

"Legal things. All the legal things. Every legal thing ever."

" _Legal things cost money, Sammy._ "

"Be glad I'm an excellent investor then," I said. "Bobby's been helping me with that for years. All three I.D.'s for each of us have access to decent nest eggs."

Not to mention well stocked and warded safe houses and storage units, none of them with the tiniest connections to us Winchesters or any of our allies.

None of them were as good as the Men of Letters bunker, but it was a bitch of a time finding that place. I knew it was in Lebanon, Kansas, but I also knew it was locked and as of yet I had no way of getting my hands on a key.

" _…you've been busy the last couple of years, haven't you?_ "

"Well, I had to fill my time with something besides hunting once I dropped out," I said. "Perfecting aliases seemed like a sensible thing to do with all the trouble we get in."

" _…fine. I'll head into town and see what I can scope out there. Call me when you're done._ "

"Will do."

The line clicked. I tossed my phone in the passenger seat and turned the radio back up.

" _…read between the lines, what's fucked up when everything's alright. Check my vital signs…_ "

* * *

I reached the bridge in fifteen minutes.

The cops were still there exploring the surrounding area and examining the car. I pulled over and put it in park. My stomach felt twisted up in knots. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and took a couple deep breaths.

It reminded me of being four again and about to start school for the first time (in this life).

 _"Breathe, Sammy. In…and out. In…and out. School can't be scarier than the monsters under the bed, right?"_

 _"Shows – what – you know," I gasped out, clutching his wrists with my tiny hands. My heart raced. My palms sweat. Everything was spiraling and I didn't know how to stop it._

 _The room was spinning._

 _"I'm the oldest. I know loads more than you, baby girl. Which is how I know you'll be fine."_

 _I closed my eyes to stop the spinning and leaned my forehead against Dean's chest. I let go of his wrists and latched onto his shirt, trying to match my breaths to his. He caught on and took slow, deep breaths until I was breathing with him._

 _"'m not a baby," I mumbled when I could breathe again. "Jerk."_

 _"You'll always be baby girl Sammy to me," Dean said and laughed._

Dean wasn't here. I couldn't match my breaths to his. But I didn't need to. I let the anxiety build to make my breaths gaspy and my hands shaky. My eyes burned.

 _Here we go._

I shoved out of the truck and bolted across the street towards the abandoned car. A police officer caught me before I could actually reach it.

"Ma'am, you can't be here – "

"That's my cousin's car!" I said. "That's his car, I know it is! Where is he? Is he okay? Let me go! I have to find him!"

I sounded just a step away from tears. I struggled in the cop's hold and tried to look stricken. I had enough acting experience to at least make a passable attempt.

"Is that _blood_?" I shrieked. "Oh my _god_ , where is he, is he okay?!"

"Officer Davis, get her out of here," someone snapped.

"Ma'am, I need you to leave," Officer Davis said, herding me back towards my truck.

"But my cousin – "

"If we find Troy, you'll be the first to know," he promised. "Now please, go."

I dug in my pockets for a scrap of paper and pen and scribbled my number down with one of my fake (but credible) I.D.'s. I shoved it into his hand. "You'll call if you find him, right?"

"Yes, I promise," he said.

I gave an absentminded nod and hurried back to my truck, making a show of wiping my eyes. I pretended to call someone back in the car and hunched over the steering wheel, shaking my shoulders in a mimicry of sobbing, before I straightened, wiped my dry eyes, and drove towards Jericho.

A boy named Troy, missing. It fit the pattern of the case Dad was working from what information Dean had. I called Dean.

* * *

Dean had found Dad's motel room. By pure coincidence, apparently, which made me paranoid about supernatural interference. How involved was the winged brigade with our lives pre-apocalypse? By what I remembered we weren't due an angelic encounter until the Trickster and the Day of Eternal Tuesdays.

But that didn't mean they weren't interfering behind the scenes.

Dean opened the motel door when I pulled up beside the Impala. He still wore Dad's old leather jacket and the amulet I'd given him years ago. I grabbed him in a brief hug (no chick flick moments, please) and stepped past him into the room.

It was, in typical Dad fashion, a disaster area. A salt line around the door and a pile of cat's eye shells on a suitcase caught my eye. Newspaper clippings were tacked to the wall. A half eaten hamburger laid under a lamp on a pile of books and clothes were scattered all over the bed.

"Dad figured it out," Dean said, pointing to an article on the far wall. "It's a Woman in White. Lady named Constance Welch jumped off Sylvania bridge in 1981 after she killed her kids. It looks like a normal salt-n-burn."

"That doesn't add up with what you said was in his message," I said. I gestured at the various protections on the room. "Or all of this. Let me hear the message?"

"Yeah, here." He passed her his phone. "Pretty sure the EVP is this Welch lady, not whatever Dad's after."

The message was cryptic as hell.

" _Dean. Something is starting to happen. I think it's serious. I need to try and find out what's going on. It may be – looking. Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger._ "

My heart gave a heavy thump. I swallowed and licked my lips, nervous. Azazel. Dad was talking about Azazel. He had to be. It matched up with what I remembered.

Something is starting to happen.

Fuck. The dreams – were they actually visions? I was so used to vivid nightmares. So used to twisted versions of that night.

The fire. The taste of bitter copper ambrosia on my tongue. Oily piss yellow eyes that glittered with malice. Screaming. God, I kept hearing the screaming.

" _NOOO!_ "

" – am? Sammy! Hey, Sammy, snap out of it!"

Dean's hands were on my shoulders. He was shaking me. Worried. I shook my head sharply and blinked. He was standing in front of me. When did he get there?

"What was that?" Dean asked. "You zoned out."

The room seemed a little wobbly. Was it spinning? It felt like it was spinning.

I could taste demon blood.

Or was it my blood?

A memory?

Dean put a hand against my forehead. "Are you sick? You don't have a fever. How many fingers am I holding up?"

I smacked at his hand. "Quit it. I'm fine." I didn't feel fine. If the nightmares were visions…we needed to finish this. Right now.

"We've gotta finish this," I said. "Right now, Dean."

"What's the sudden rush?"

"We've gotta stop her before she kills someone else, right?" I scanned the article on the wall and picked out the husband's name. "I'll go talk to the husband and find out where she's buried."

"Sam!"

"I'll call you!" I said over my shoulder, barely pausing to open the door and fish out my car keys. I needed to be on the road. Tomorrow was November 2. The anniversary of Mary's death.

Wouldn't it be poetic if it was also the day my friends died?

I unlocked my truck and was about to get in when I noticed the cop across the parking lot. It was the same one from before, Officer Davis, talking to someone. A hotel employee. They looked in my direction, the officer talking and the other guy nodding, gesturing towards me – or the room behind me.

Shit.

I dropped my keys, grabbed my phone and hit speed dial.

" _Sam? What the hell –_ "

"Five-0, Dean, get out of there," I hissed.

" _What about you?_ "

I looked over my shoulder and they were headed my way. "They spotted me."

" _Sammy –_ "

"Go finish the case, Dean," I said and hung up. I tried to look harried and concerned as Officer Davis reached me. "Officer! Did you find Troy? Is he – "

"Cut the act, ma'am," Officer Davis said, holding up a hand. "Troy Squire doesn't have any cousins. And it's funny; I asked his dad about a Felicity Thompson, but he didn't have any idea who you were. Neither did Troy's girlfriend."

I winced.

Busted.

* * *

I wish I could say this was the first time I'd been in police custody.

It really, really wasn't.

If my past self ever saw my police record, she'd shit a brick, honest to Chuck. It wasn't anything serious; petty theft, vandalism, maybe a charge or two of B&E, and possible one minor assault charge. Small time compared to things like grave desecration and murder, both of which I'd (technically) committed. Dad and Dean would say the murder didn't count since monsters weren't human, but I disagreed.

(A life was a life, human or not.)

The door opened behind me and the local sheriff entered, carrying an evidence box.

"You wanna give us your real name?"

"Felicity Thompson is my real name," I said. "I told you, I'm a journalist. I work for an online news source – "

He dropped the box on the table. I shut up.

"I'm not sure you realize how much trouble you're in here," he said, bracing his hands on the box. "You've got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall along with a whole lot of satanic mumbo jumbo. Girl, you are officially a suspect."

"The first one went missing before I was even born," I said.

"I know you've got partners," he said. "One of 'em's an older guy. Maybe he started the whole thing." He reached in the box and pulled out a familiar leather bound journal. "So tell me _Samantha_ ; is this his?"

I tried to school my expression. Less shock, more indifference, but honestly? I'm sure the shock was pretty damn apparent.

(I'd always been a crap actor.)

"I thought that might be your name," he said. "See, I leafed through this. There's a picture of you in the front pocket. Graduation, right? The rest of it's nine kinds of crazy. But I found this too."

 _Dean_

 _35 – 111_

Coordinates from Dad, written and circled in black sharpie.

"Now I figure Dean's your partner, the young guy the motel manager mentioned," he continued. "But what I want to know, and what you're going to tell me, is _exactly_ what the hell those numbers mean. Understand?"

"Samantha's my middle name," I said. "Dean's my brother. He's a PI; sometimes he lets me tag along on his cases. That's the combination for the safe he keeps case files in."

The best lies had a grain of truth in them. The sheriff could question me all he wanted. My story was solid. One of Dean's fake I.D.'s was Dean Thompson, Private Investigator. It was a valid I.D. with valid records, same as Felicity Samantha Thompson.

He kept questioning me. I got antsy, bouncing my legs and tapping my fingers. I wanted it done and over with so I could get to Stanford and make sure my friends were safe.

 _Please let them be safe._

And then another officer stuck his head in the interrogation room and said, "We just got a 911, shots fired over at Whiteford road."

The sheriff asked if I had to go to the bathroom and cuffed me to the table when I said no. Shut and locked the door behind him, too.

He didn't move Dad's journal out of reach. There was a paper clip stuck to one of the pages.

Sometimes they made it too easy.

* * *

It took fifteen minutes to get out of the station and to the nearest payphone.

Dean answered with " _How was the hoosegow?_ "

"The hospitality was shit," I said. "Thanks for the save, big brother."

" _Yeah, no problem. Sorry it took so long. Look, I found out where the lady was buried. I'm headed there now._ "

He rattled off the address.

"I'll get my truck and meet you. And Dean?"

" _Yeah?_ "

"I've got Dad's journal. He left coordinates."

" _Shit. He doesn't go anywhere without that, Sam._ "

"He did this time."

" _Man, what the hell is going on? It's not like him to – SHIT!_ "

Tires screeched. I heard Dean swear again.

"Dean? Dean!"

" _…take me home…_ "

A woman's voice echoed eerily down the line. I swore; two victims in as many days and one of them Dean. Why the hell did Dad have to pick this case to go AWOL on? Couldn't he have finished the job before he skipped town?

I ran the entire way back to the motel. My keys, in a stroke of luck, were still on the ground where I'd dropped them, hidden in the shadow of the front tire. I thanked whoever was listening and drove like a bat out of hell, pedal to the floorboard.

Baby was outside the old Welch house. I saw Dean's silhouette in the front seat and someone, a woman dressed in white, leaning over him.

I screeched to a halt beside him, grabbed a shotgun from the bag on the floor behind me and shout out Dean's window and Constance Welch all in one go. Dean gasped and coughed. I slammed out of my truck, cocking the gun for another shot.

Constance reappeared, but I didn't get the chance to shoot her again. Dean put Baby in drive, said "I'm taking you home, bitch," and drove straight through the front door.

I ran after him, stumbling over broken wood and old furniture. He groaned from the front seat.

"Dean? You alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Help me out, would you?"

I swore at him and reached with my free hand to grab his. Together we got him out without too many mishaps while Constance was distracted with an old picture. I raised my shotgun again with Dean free.

Constance looked up, expression dark. My finger twitched on the trigger, about to pull it…and then the lights flickered on.

Water spilled down the stairs. Constance looked at it in confusion and then flickered in front of the stairs. Her expression morphed into something heartbroken and guilty.

" _You've come home to us, Mommy._ "

Two children flickered into existence behind her and latched onto her. She screamed as they dragged her down.

All they left behind was a puddle of water on the floor.

"What the fuck," I said, lowering my gun. "Fucking _ghosts_ , I swear."

"She must've drowned her kids here," Dean said. "She couldn't face them, so she could never go home." He grinned. "Looks like I found her weakness! Am I a genius or what?"

I shot him a very skeptical look. "You drove Baby into a house."

He glared. "You shot out her _window_."

"A house, Dean."

"Windows, Sam."

"Saved your ass, didn't it?"

"So did my idea. And it wasn't a temporary fix."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

We grinned at each other. It was nice to be home.

* * *

"These coordinates are to Blackwater Ridge, Colorado," I said awhile later, map spread out over the hood of my truck. "It is – _was_ – a hunt."

Dean looked up from taping up Baby's window. "Was?"

"I was in the area six months ago and dealt with it," I said. I'd been following a lead on the Colt, actually, when I caught wind of the case. It turned out a wendigo had taken up residence in the woods, picking off hikers and campers. "It was a wendigo."

"Did you take care of it?"

"Of course I did," I said, offended. "I don't leave a job unfinished, Dean."

I got four scars down one side for my trouble.

Dean held his hands up, placating. "Sorry, just checking. You think he's there?"

"We can check, but I doubt it." Dad was hunting demons, not wendigos. "But before we go anywhere else, I've got plans in Palo Alto."

"I thought you dropped out?"

"I dropped college, not my friends, Dean. I still keep in touch with Dirk and Barry, too."

Dean was silent. I looked at his expression and laughed. "You too, huh?"

"Shut up."

"How is the lovely Amanda Heckerling?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You ready to go?"

"Got her taped up?"

"She'll hold until I can get a new window." He turned a narrow eyed gaze on me. "And Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever shoot my baby again, I'll kill you."

* * *

I spent the drive to Palo Alto imagining worst case scenarios that grew worse and worse the more I thought on them. I tried listening to music, but every song playing grated on my taught nerves like nails down a chalkboard. I slammed my finger into the off button, pulled over, put it in park, and laid my forehead on the steering wheel. A few seconds later the door opened.

"Code A?" Dean asked.

I nodded and gripped the steering wheel tighter. What if I got there and they were already dead? What if one of them were possessed? What if I got there just in time to see them go up in flames?

 _Please be a nightmare. Not a vision. Please_.

"How long's it been since you saw your friends?"

I took a deep breath. Pushed it out. Repeated. "My birthday," I said. "Right after the wendigo case."

Literally right after. I'd sewn myself up and drove straight to Brady's apartment, where I'd collapsed on his couch and spent the next two weeks recovering. He'd freaked when he saw the claw marks and called Jess in for reinforcements. Making up excuses to the nurse-to-be had been the most stressful part of that entire week.

"When's the last time you talked to them?"

"I texted Brady when I crossed the state line."

I texted him. I didn't call. What if someone managed to possess him? He had a charm, but would that be enough? What if he was already dead and someone was using his phone? What if I was walking into a trap?

 _What if, what if, what if…_

"Wanna tell me what you're stressing about?"

I let out an incoherent noise of distress because _I couldn't explain it to him_. Just thinking about it ramped my anxiety levels up to ridiculous heights, made my chest feel tight and my heart rate jump up. It got hard to breathe.

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey, Sammy, breathe." He put a hand on my back and rubbed in soothing circles. "C'mon baby girl, breathe with me. In…and out. In…and out."

I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed. In…and out. In…and out. Dean coached me through it until my chest loosened and my breath didn't come out in harsh, sharp pants. I let go of the steering wheel and flexed my aching fingers, sitting up so slow my joints creaked like I was an old lady.

Dean watched me with a small frown and a worried pinch between his eye brows.

The urge to apologize welled up, but I swallowed it back. I didn't need to apologize for having a minor break down. Dean wouldn't expect an apology and would wave it off if I did give one.

"You gonna be okay to drive?"

"I've been managing on my own for four years, Dean," I said, the words coming out sharp and defensive.

"I know that," Dean said, just as sharp, and then took a deep breath and repeated, "I know. But will you?"

How was I supposed to know? It wasn't like these things came with a manual. The best I could do was hope for the best.

And despite my rampant anxiety, I was good at hoping.

(My headspace was a messy, confusing, contradictory place.)

"I'll be fine," I said. My stomach rolled. I wasn't half as certain as I appeared, but Dean didn't need to know that.

I _would_ be fine, because I couldn't be anything else. One breakdown was more than enough, thanks very much. Time to woman up and get my ass to Palo Alto.

(They'd better be okay.)

Dean didn't look to convinced, but he went back to his car. Five minutes later we were back on the road.

Palo Alto, here we come.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so sorry for the long wait! Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth and I hate it. I hate it so much. I've rewritten it and deleted it at least five different times and finally decided I'm done. I might come back later and edit it (I'm sorry; I'll probably do stuff like this a lot) and replace it with a better version.**

 **I hope you guys like it!**

* * *

 **BRADY**

Brady knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the apartment door.

Jess was there and she looked fine. She looked like she'd always looked, like Jess, but Brady still felt a chill down his spine and after a quick look over he realized why.

Jess was missing the anti-possession charm Sam had given her for her birthday several years ago. The silver chain Brady knew Sam had spent a small fortune on was absent, his little sister's neck bare, and Brady knew he wasn't dealing with his little sister anymore.

Outwardly, Brady didn't panic. Panic was unproductive. Panic led to hasty decisions and bad life choices, at least according to Sam, who had a lot more experience with this than Brady did. He kept a calm expression and tried to pretend it really was his sister standing there and not a demon wearing her body like one of their dad's armani suits.

"You're early, sis," he said. "Sam won't be here for awhile yet."

The demon rolled her eyes just like Jess, crossed her arms just like Jess, and sounded just like Jess when she said, "I know that, dumbass. But I need to borrow your oven to make cookies. Mine crapped out again."

Brady rolled his eyes even as his skin crawled. "If you didn't cheap out - "

"I'm not using that asshole's money," she interrupted, scowling. "Now are you gonna let me in or not?"

Brady stepped aside and let her pass him, wishing he'd paid closer attention to Sam's lessons on how to deal with demons and her insistence on salt lines. If he had then the demon wouldn't be in his house, in his sister, laying in wait for Sam for God only knows what reasons.

(It wasn't like Sam had ever been too forthcoming about why the denizens of hell were so interested in her.)

He sat down at the table and watched the demon go through the same song and dance Jess did whenever she used his kitchen to indulge in stress baking. There wasn't the slightest hesitation in her movements to give her away as someone other than Jess, which upped the creepiness about ten levels.

Brady pulled his phone out with the intention of texting Sam, but a no service notification flashed across the screen. He bit back a swear and tucked it back in his pocket. Jess had been insisting he get a landline laterly, but he hadn't gotten around to it. There might be a neighbor who would let him borrow their phone, but Brady got the feeling any suspicious actions would trigger the demon and he wasn't about to bring innocents into that.

"What kind of cookies are you making?"

"Chocolate chip, why?"

"I'm not sure I have everything you'll need," Brady said. "If I leave now, I can probably get to the grocery store down the street before it closes."

He hoped he didn't have everything. A grocery run would get him out of the apartment and maybe in range of a cell signal. If Brady could call Sam and give her some forewarning -

"No, you've got everything," Jess said, interrupting his thoughts. "I checked already."

Shit. Brady was fucked. So very, very fucked. There was a demon in his apartment, in his sister, Sam was on her way, and Brady had no way of warning her in advance.

 _Fuck._

It was a few hours before Sam texted to let him know she was almost there. Brady's hands shook as he fumbled to open the damn phone and before he could calm down enough to manage it slim hands plucked it from his grip.

"I don't think you need that," the demon said, "do you?"

Brady looked up into black eyes and knew he was fucked.

* * *

The demon tied him to a chair in the bedroom with the duct tape Brady kept in a kitchen drawer. She put a strip of it over his mouth and smiled wickedly when he tried burning holes in her with his gaze.

"You make some ugly faces for such a pretty man," she crooned, trailing a finger down his chest.

Brady shuddered. He thought he might be sick. The urge was there as his sister gave him a very unsisterly look with eyes that weren't her own. Everything about this was fucked. He didn't care how leery Jess was about tattoos, as soon as Sam saved their asses he was driving her straight to a tattoo parlor and getting her an anti-possession tattoo.

The demon pouted and leaned away. "It's a shame there's not time to have any fun," she said. "I can think of a few things you and I could do together, hm?" She giggled and Brady really was going to be sick because that sound was not _natural_. It was too high pitched and it was fucking with Brady's head seeing his sister like this, in the same fucked up situation he'd been in three years ago. Brady could only hope the demon was keeping Jess blissfully unconscious in her own mind and not giving her a front row seat to the twisted games it was playing.

 _Hurry up, Sam._

"I wonder...do you think little Sammy Winchester will know it's not her lover in here?" The demon tilted her head and widened her eyes - Jess's eyes, brown and warm but now with a fractured madness in them. "I bet she won't. I'm a very good actor."

And Sam was a damn good hunter, Brady thought furiously. She would know it wasn't Jess in an instant.

(He ignored the voice of doubt in his mind reminding him that it'd taken Sam months to notice he was possessed. It was different.)

(It really wasn't.)

This demon wasn't like the demon that'd possessed him three years ago. It was...madder. More unstable. Balanced on a hair trigger that made Brady kind of glad he'd been duct taped into silence. He didn't feel like being gutted for mouthing off.

The demon moved in front of the mirror, fiddling with Jess's hair and pursing her lips, trying different poses and expressions. Brady felt a little horrified to see his tomboyish, rebellious little sister acting like - like _that!_ It clashed with everything he knew about his sister, jarred so harshly with his reality that Brady could feel an existential crisis creeping up on him.

Jess was primping. _Primping!_

 _I have seen that which cannot be unseen._

It might've been funny if it was really Jess and not a demon wearing her body. Brady might have laughed and teased her about dressing up for Sam (quiet, nerdy, awkward, scary, hunter Sam) and Jess would've snapped something back about his one night stands, embarrassed, and Brady would've mussed her hair and Jess would've sworn at him and it would've been...nice. Happy. _Good_.

So much better than this, Brady taped to a chair and Jess trapped in her own body while a demon rode it around doing whatever the hell it wanted.

(Next time Sam mentioned demon proofing his place, Brady was going to listen and follow her advice to the goddamn letter.)

"Hello?"

Jess straightened with a smile. Brady jerked and tried to yell out, to warn Sam, but it was useless.

"Show time," the demon said. She pasted on a look of concern and rushed out of the room.

"Sam! Sam, oh my god, it's been so long!"

Brady wanted to laugh. The demon had access to his sister's memories and personality, but that was the approach she took? Sam would see through it in an instant.

But maybe that was the point.

There was a murmur of voices and then a sharp crack and a thud. Someone shouted Sam's name and then there was a crash of splintered wood and shattered glass. Brady screamed and struggled, but all he managed to do was slide the chair an inch to the left.

The demon came back without a smile and grabbed the chair, towing him behind her effortlessly.

There were two people in the living room and Brady only recognized one. Sam was on the ground, dazed, with the beginnings of a black eye and blood leaking from her nose. There was a gun near the wall, out of reach, and the demon bent down to pick up a silver knife with a wicked edge. The stranger, a man in a leather jacket, groaned near the wall.

"Tut, tut, Sammy," the demon said, disappointed. "Didn't Daddy teach you better?"

Sam's pupils weren't right. She blinked to slowly to be normal. Concussion, Brady thought, and wasn't that just great? The only person who knew how to deal with demons was working with a heavy handicap and one, maybe two possible hostages.

Fucking super.

They were so fucking screwed.

"Ssshudup," Sam slurred. She glared fuzzily at Jess – at the _demon_ – and the black-eyed fucker laughed. The stranger – Sam's friend? Brother? Sam had a brother, didn't she? Brady swore she'd mentioned a brother – shifted. Brady heard the scrape of broken glass against the floor and a hiss of pain. Green eyes opened, blinked, and widened. Brady gave a quick, sharp shake of his head.

 _Don't do anything,_ he tried to say with his eyes. _Wait. For fuck's sake, wait._

Green Eyes expression twisted and flicked to Sam and back, but he gave a subtle nod back. Brady almost slumped with relief.

The demon hadn't noticed the little exchange, too busy gloating about her success. Sam tried to get up, but the demon reacted and slammed a harsh kick into her ribs. Sam crumpled, gasping, and rage flashed across Green Eyes' face. Brady glared daggers at his sister's back and hoped the demon felt every single one.

"You know, I was _so_ pleased to get this assignment," Jess crooned, grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair and tilting her head back. "It's not everyday we get a free ride topside. And a chance to take down _the_ Sam Winchester…I was honored." She laughed, high pitched and insane. "But you're not tough are you, Sammy? All talk, none of the walk and with a body like yours that's a pity, really."

She slammed Sam's face into the ground and Brady flinched at the sound it made.

And Green Eyes, well.

He _moved_.

Swift as a cheetah he was on his feet and tackling Jess off Sam. The demon's head – _Jess's_ head – slammed into the ground with the same sickening noise Sam's made. Brady let out a distressed noise – that was his _sister_ , jesus fuck, couldn't the asshole be a little more gentle? – and the demon snarled.

"Oh, is that how you want to play it, Winchester?" she hissed. "Then let's _play_."

Green Eyes was thrown off her, but she made no move towards any of them. No, instead, she snapped her fingers.

Flames erupted from the ceiling.

"Let's see you escape this time!"

She threw her head – Jess's head back – and departed in a plume of black smoke.

* * *

 **SAM**

There were gongs going off in my head. The world kept tilting in ways it wasn't meant to tilt. Heat licked at my back.

I couldn't think. Everything was fuzzy in a bad way, like I was trying to think through cotton. I could hear the crackle roar of flames. Someone was shouting, screaming really, and fuck, that was familiar. Why was that familiar?

" – AM! SAM! HEY!"

Rough hands rolled me over and grabbed my face, forcing my gaze up and I saw Dean – Dean, bracketed by flames, like something straight out of a nightmare, or a very distant memory.

"Hey, you listening to me?" he demanded. "SAM!"

"I'm lishening," I said, but the words came out slurred and slow. I felt slow. Dean swore and pulled my arm around his shoulder, hauling me to my feet. The room spun, smoke and flame, and I thought I'd be sick.

There was someone on the floor. Someone with blond hair in spiraling curls and a pretty heart shaped face and I knew them, that was –

"Jesh," I said and noticed the other person, tied to a chair. "Bra'y?"

Brady was tied up with duct tape and gagged with it too. He looked frantically at me and then at Jess, like I'd ever leave them behind.

"I'll come back for them – " Dean tried and I shook my head. No, he had to get them now, we had to get them out _right now_. The fire wasn't natural, it was demon made and it would swallow them up if we let it, if we left them.

 _I'll eat you up, I love you so_ , I thought and giggled. Dean swore, loudly and at length, but set me against the as of yet untouched couch. I watched through bleary eyes as he pulled a pocket knife from his shoe and got to work on the duct tape holding Brady.

The smoke got thicker. The heat got warmer. I started to cough and slumped sideways. It was so hot. So hard to breathe.

"SAMMY! Stay awake, damn it, I've almost – "

Dean's knife slid through the last bit and Brady was up and out of his chair, ripping the duct tape off his face in one go and kneeling beside Jess.

I let my eyes fall closed.

Everything was going to be fine.

* * *

And it was, for the most part.

We got out alive. Jess was alive. No one was possessed.

It was a win.

"You should go to the hospital," Brady said as we sat outside on the trunk of the Impala, watching firefighters and ambulances swarm the street and try to contain the fire.

"Hate hospitals," I mumbled.

"Is that why I'm always patching you up?"

Jess limped around the side of the car, Dean half a step behind her. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week, with the shadows under her eyes and sickly pallor to her skin. Brady lifted an arm and she tucked herself against her brother's side without hesitation.

If that wasn't a sign something was seriously wrong, I don't know what was. Jess didn't seek comfort.

Brady noticed it too. His pulled her in tighter like he could protect her from the world if he just kept her close enough.

"Sammy's always hated hospitals," Dean said. "Runs in the family."

"That explains the crazy," Brady said. "A whole lot of untreated brain damage."

"Rude," I muttered and made grabby hands at Dean. He stepped closer and I latched onto him like a teddy bear, tucking my forehead against his neck and sliding my arms around his back, letting my full weight sag against him.

"Is she okay?" Jess asked.

"Yes," both Dean and Brady answered. I felt Dean go stiff and let out an annoyed noise. He sighed, and fingers started searching through my hair, find the bumps and contusions the demon had left.

"I know how to take care of a concussion," Dean said.

"Sam's tough, Jessie, you know that," Brady added. "Remember last time she was here?"

Jess made a noise, something like a growl, and said, "Yeah, I remember. I remember the fucking foot plus long gashes in her side too."

"Hate wendi'os," I mumbled. "Fuckers."

I was slurring less. Skipping consonants more, but less slurring. Still felt fuzzy, thinking through cotton. The sirens and shouting were like hammers to my head on top of the throbbing my head was already doing. Dean's methodical injury search turned into soothing petting.

"Don't fall asleep," he said.

"'m not," I protested.

I wasn't that fucked up, jesus. Everything was fuzzy and slow, but I at least had enough clarity of thought to know better than that. I couldn't quite figure out why it was important that I stay awake, which might be kind of bad, but that might've been the concussion talking.

"Excuse me, are you Brady Moore?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"You're the tenant in apartment 3-B?"

"Yes."

I tuned them out. Dean stopped petting my hair. He smelled like smoke and sweat.

"You need a shower," I mumbled.

He snorted. "So do you."

"I smell like fuckin' roses."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

Of course, coming out alive was the simple part. Brady's entire life had burned up in the fire. He didn't have insurance and he'd been cut off from his trust fund during the whole possession fiasco three years ago, which had led to the Moore family split; it was a lot like the Winchester family split, except, you know, there'd been less child disownment and a whole lot more parental disownment.

I tried not to feel bad for it, because from everything I'd heard the Moore parents were giant assholes on a good day. I didn't always succeed because I hoarded guilt like a dragon hoarded gold, but, you know, a for effort and all that.

Brady had nothing. Jess lived in an all girl's dorm and point blank refused to go back.

"You can't seriously expect me to go back after _that_ ," she said, three days after the fire, when Brady brought up the subject. "I was _possessed_. By a _demon_. Do you have any idea – "

"Yeah," Brady interrupted, "and I had it a hell of a lot worse than you did, sis."

I reached for the bottle of jack on the table and poured myself a generous glass. The demon that possessed Brady had systematically worked to destroy everything he'd considered important – his grades, his scholarship, his friendships, his family, his reputation, his _faith_. By the time I figured out what was up, Brady's life had been in ruins. His family was feuding, he'd fucked off his scholarship, his parents had cut him off from his trust fund, he'd been addicted to multiple drugs, and he'd had no friends left beside me and Jess.

And that was without getting into the issues being possessed left behind. Post traumatic stress, paranoia, depression, mood swings, nightmares, the whole shebang.

Lots of reasons to rock the guilt complex.

"You were possessed? Is that – that's what happened, isn't it? When you were…"

I picked up my glass and went outside. Let them talk this out. It was none of my business. Especially since I was the reason Brady, and now Jess, had been possessed in the first place. Dean followed me out.

"He's been possessed before?"

I tossed back half my glass. "About three years ago. He was possessed for months."

"Dude's lucky."

I scoffed.

"He is," Dean said. "Most possessed people end up dead. Or worse."

"Most people don't get possessed in the first place," I retorted. My hands were shaking. I set my glass on the hood of the car and rubbed my hands on my pants. "Bobby hears about three, maybe four possessions in a year, usually. That's, what, twelve, sixteen in four years? What are the odds that two of those possessions would be friends of mine?"

Microscopic if I'd been anyone else. But I wasn't. I was Sam fucking Winchester, girl with the demon blood, destined starter of the apocalypse, true vessel for the devil.

"You're over thinking it. Shit happens, Sam. Random, unpredictable shit and it sucks, man. It sucks bad. But that's life."

"Yeah, well, I fucking hate it."

"You and me both, Sammy. You and me both."

I finished off my drink and wished I'd brought the bottle out with me.

"So…what're you gonna do now?"

"What?" I looked at Dean in confusion. "What d'you mean?"

He avoided my gaze. "I'm going to hit the road soon to keep looking for Dad. What're you going to do? Stick around here with your friends? Head in the other direction?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"It's a legitimate question, Sam. You and Dad didn't exactly part on the best of terms."

"Are you _serious_?" I stared at him incredulously. "You're really – what the _fuck_ , Dean."

Dean started to scowl. "You left, Sam."

I pushed away from the car, away from Dean, and dragged a hand down my face, laughing a bit. Our family was so fucked up. Dean really thought that I would – what, leave Dad to his own devices? Leave _him_ to his own devices? Fuck off to whatever I'd been doing before Dad disappeared?

"Do you really expect me to just, what, leave? Walk off knowing Dad's missing and pretend like you didn't ask for help?"

"I don't know what to expect Sam! I didn't expect you to leave the first time, but guess what? You did!"

"I got a full ride into Stanford, Dean! An _Ivy League_ college."

If he'd known anything about who I was in my first life, he would've realized what a fucking accomplishment that was.

And with the life I'd led this time around? It was a fucking miracle.

"Would it have killed you to say 'I'm proud of you. You did a good job'?"

"Sam – "

"I just wanted one thing, Dean. One thing just for me, just one normal fucking thing! And I couldn't even have that without Dad going ballistic and kicking me out!"

My voice cracked. I swiped at my burning eyes. This was stupid, it'd been four years. There was no use crying over spilt milk.

"If you wanted normal so bad, then why'd you keep hunting? Huh? Tell me that, Sam."

 _Because I didn't have a choice. Because people died. Because they kept dying. Because someone had to do something; it might as well be me._

 _Because when I was a baby, a demon bled in my mouth and I lost whatever chance I had at being normal._

 _Because I'm so fucked up that going a month without hunting anything made me feel like an addict going through withdrawal._

I wiped my eyes. "You know what, it doesn't matter. Let's just find Dad, okay?"

Dean snorted and looked away. "Yeah, whatever."

He stormed back into the motel room and the slammed shut behind him.

* * *

 **So, things happened differently. Jess was possessed, but is still alive. There was still a fire, but no one died.**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'll try to get the next chapter out quicker than this one and hopefully it'll be less like pulling teeth.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it! Come find me on Tumblr at: .com**


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